Lent: Journey

Was it the years, or the mileage?

It was a question the pilgrim had asked himself more times than he could count. There was the night he had fled his city, driven half-mad with a desire to leave, spurred on by the words of the stranger who had come to town: “Flee the wrath that is to come.”

He had walked through one pair of shoes after another, until finally the soles of his feet themselves were as thick as any shoe’s he had owned, so perhaps it was the miles. The road had led him ever onward, over hill and dale, through strange terrain, through strange lands, until his legs which had ached with the distance no longer ached even at the thought of what was to come. 

On the other hand, maybe it was the years for the journey had aged the pilgrim more than he had expected it would. There were the expected challenges like the sand pit, but he’d also faced horrors that had crawled out of his worst nightmares when he’d passed through the Valley of Shadows. He’d arrived at waystations as the sun had set, and slept; but when he woke in the morning the hostels were gone and in their place he was left with visions that left him with a lingering foreboding. 

And of course there had been the long and thirsty night deep in the forest with the enchantress by the well. She’d offered him a drink, if only he’d sign his name in her guest book first. 

It had been a long journey, and it still wasn’t at an end. More years awaited the pilgrim on the road, and so did the miles. His final destination, always on his mind, still seemed as distant as it did the day he’d begun. 

He knew he’d make it there, eventually, the same way he’d started. 

One step, and one day, at a time. 

#rethinkchurch.